


Fourth Goddess

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foyle was right about one thing, Jack thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourth Goddess

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2014 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

In Norse legend, the queen goddess Frigg searched far and wide to save her cursed son Baldr. In Greek legend, Demeter withered the world until her daughter was returned. In Mesopotamia, Gilgamesh journeyed into the Underworld to reunite with his lover Enkindu. And the powerful Isis, Goddess of Fertility and Magic, scoured the Nile for each piece of her husband Osiris and put him back together again on the banks of that great river.

But Baldr still died. Demeter was separated from her daughter. Enkindu remained dead. And in Australia, the banks of the river hold corpses that cannot be quickened with life.

Jack knew what they would find when they reached the section of the river, and he knew that Phryne knew it as well. But knowing and seeing are two different things, and when they dig up the small, fragile bones she sinks to her knees, her limbs folding up and bending into herself like a bird whose wings have been broken.

His heart breaks for her.

She reaches behind her and his hand is somehow already there, because he was already reaching out for her, already seeking to comfort her in any way that he can. Their hands grasp at one another, his fingers at her inner wrist, feeling the pulse pound sluggishly as if she wants her heart to stop, wants to curl up and die right there with her sister's bones.

He can't let her.

He anchors her, the rock to which she is chained, the only thing keeping her tethered to shore as she drifts out to sea. And he continues to anchor her, long after they stop touching. She keeps looking at him, her eyes searching for his like she needs them to remind her that she is alive, and awake, and real. And every time he is staring at her, because at some point in their relationship he found he couldn't bring himself to look away.

Because Foyle was right about one thing, Jack thinks.

Phryne Fisher is a goddess.

She is a goddess in silver that night, celebrating her birthday, celebrating being  _alive_ , even though he knows that not all of her heart is in it. She dances, laughs, and even sings just a little, bowing graciously when the cake is brought out and everyone toasts to her. It's all he can do to lean back against the wall and watch, when all he wants to do is worship at her feet. He can't call it watching, though, not when it's like this. It's more like he's drinking her in, breathing her, utterly transfixed. He can still feel her in his arms like a phantom limb, her head lolling against his breastbone, her body heavy and frighteningly still. It was the first time in his life that he could say he had been truly terrified. He'd feared that perhaps she'd drunk too much, that they wouldn't get her to a doctor in time. He'd feared losing her.

And now he gets to stand there and drink in his fill of her, watching her shimmer and shine like she came from the moon, or perhaps a constellation, a star that somehow fell to earth.

He stands, and he watches, hanging on each look she gives him, each private smile, until he realizes that they are the only two awake. Somehow, at some point, Ces took Alice home, Jane went to bed, Hugh and Burt fell asleep on the sofa, Aunt Prudence (wonderful, now even he is calling her 'Aunt') took over one of the spare bedrooms for the night, Dot curled up on the armchair like a tiny kitten, and goodness knows where Butler went.

She looks at him, again, and smiles. It's the kind of smile you see on ancient statues, he realizes: enigmatic, teasing, mysterious.

But then the smile falters, slipping away, and as she walks toward him he can feel the air in the room shift.

"Miss Fisher?"

She takes his hands in hers and bows her head, pressing his hands to her forehead, almost as if she's asking for benediction. "Phryne," she whispers. "In the tomb… you called me Phryne."

He can't pull away, drawn in like a magnet, a helpless devotee in the temple of his goddess. "I was worried." It's the truth, but it's the surface truth, skating gently across the surface of the deep, drowning well of emotion trapped in his chest. "I let myself get… emotional."

She raises her head again, his hands still in hers but now, she's pressing them to her chest, just below her clavicle, like they're a treasure that she stole or a bouquet of flowers he offered her. Stole, offered freely… he can't tell anymore. It's probably both.

"And to think, all it took was my near death." There is an impressive airiness to her voice, but he can see the quiver in her lips, the question in her eyes.

Goddesses have taken on mortal lovers, they say, if the mortal was worthy enough.

He can't say who started the kiss, who first leaned in, who first closed their eyes and brushed their lips together, who first took a tiny step inward. But then he can't say who first started this dance of theirs. Who first looked at whom for a second too long? Who first started encroaching on the other's personal space? Who first reached out to touch the other under the guise of safety or camaraderie or an equally ridiculous excuse?

She drops his hands and he brings them down to come around her back, draw her in, hold her against him. It feels like a grew back an arm, or perhaps a piece of his heart, because ever since he carried her out of that tomb he's wanted nothing more than to hold her for eternity. But this is even better, because she is awake and alive now, no phantom of death, and she holds him as tightly as he holds her. He can feel the smear of her lipstick against his mouth and it sends a thrill through him, sparking throughout his body before settling in his stomach where it simmers, reminds him of more to come. She's lithe and sinuous, the angles of her body lining up against his, the fabric of their clothing scratching and tugging in counterpoint.

When they part, his knees nearly buckle at the sight of her. His hand found its way into her hair at some point, and those silky strands, usually perfectly in place, are now disheveled. Her mouth is devoid of lipstick now but her lips are full and dark, slick with spit, and the color in her cheeks has nothing to do with makeup. Her silver-white wrap has been tossed aside (landing on a sleeping Burt, incidentally, who doesn't even stir) and one of her shoulder straps has slid down, revealing the creamy slope of her shoulder in all its glory. Just that one bit of skin and he's already undone.

She leads him up the stairs, walking backwards, one hand in his and the other with her fingers holding the end of his tie, and all he can do is follow, unable to tear his eyes away from her. He has no idea how he manages to make it up the stairs without tripping.

The goddess Persephone, the Iron Queen, married the God of the Dead, Hades. For she was so full of life, so powerful and shining, that she could bring even one as sad and dark as he to joy and laughter.

He feels like the God of the Dead. Alone in the dark, in the gray, until she came in with her light and her color, the spring to his winter, reminding him what it felt like to breathe and to smile.

He's not sure who's comforting who, here. He trembles as he undoes her dress, but she sobs into his mouth when he kisses her. He groans against the skin of her shoulder but she gasps into the cordons of his neck. He worships her, body and soul, drags his lips across every piece of her that he can reach, but she accepts his simple offerings with a boundless hunger like a goddess who's temple has long been empty and devoid of worshippers. He knows that isn't true. There are dozens of men who would give their souls to be in his place. Yet here she is, choosing him, and clinging to him like a ship to a lighthouse.

When he can't stand it anymore, when the desire in his stomach grows too great, he enters her and they both cry out. He wants her to make that sound again, and again, he never wants to hear anything else, and he is content to let loose his own sounds of devotion if it means she knows the state to which she's reduced him. He clings to her and her to him and soon their limbs are so intertwined he forgets where he ends and she begins, their legs looped around each other and their arms encircling one another, their mouths meeting over and over again.

He watches her sleep in the moonlight, her skin glowing like a pearl, their hands still grasping at one another. She is warm against him, and he can feel her chest press lightly against him with each rise and fall of her breaths. He holds her in his arms, and prays that though he knows he has to let her go, she will choose to return.

When Isis found all the pieces of her husband, she put him back together again on the banks of the Nile. And there she made love to him, and with the power of her love she brought him back from the dead, to rule beside her once more.

Phryne did bring someone back to life, and in turn he was able to bring life back to her.

She is the fourth goddess, he thinks. And she is the greatest of them all.


End file.
